


Fifteen Minute Smoke Break

by sorrens



Series: Minor Vices [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Heaven and Hell share a smokers' courtyard, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, There's a raccoon called Bastard, abuse of footnotes, aziraphale smokes the devils lettuce, can you tell the author has never smoked?, heaven and hell are just a bunch of horny teenagers, mentions of smoking and weed use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 18:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: Heaven is a no smoking area.Suprisingly, the depths of Hell are too.The two rival offices share a single smokers’ courtyard.Fraternising ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: References to smoking (tobacco and weed)

Smoking was banned in Hell after an unfortunate incident in the Summer of ’76 [1] whereby an unnamed and now permanently discorporated beetle demon decided that, in the absence of a lighter, it would be appropriate to light his cigarette in the Infernal Flames located in the Department of (you guessed it) Infernal Flames. Demons don’t have much in the way of standards, and little-to-no concept of pride, but this action was the closest one could get to blaspheming in these depths.

You see, Satan has eyes everywhere and this little lapse in judgement resulted in a very angry memo from the deepest pit and a subsequent departmentally mandated “Quit Smoking” seminar as punishment.

Whilst the chipper motivational speaker prattled on about “Focusing your energies and exercising willpower,” to the hundreds of disgruntled demons snoozing in the audience, Beelzebub was tasked with putting up offensively ugly “No Smoking” posters and a less-than-polite request to visit the smokers’ courtyard if one really felt the need.

This caused a flurry of interest. _Where was the courtyard?_ They had been in their current offices for over three millennia and weren’t aware of there being a courtyard.

Beelzebub’s lip curled when they were asked.

“You take the lift up to the ground floor and it’s to the left. It’s quite… polluted. I suspect after seeing it’d you’ll all be begging to quit.”

The mob shrugged and shuffled towards the elevator.

“Hey, did I say you could take a break?” They barked at the mass exodus.

There was no acknowledgement.

Determined to retain the upper hand, they straightened their sash and called out over the crowd:

“Okay, 15 minute smoke break. And don’t be late back! Or do? Satan help me.”

Whilst these instructions had come from Satan Himself, the logistics had naturally fallen to middle-management. It was all very good for the man to have “bright ideas” but it was a pain in the arse to execute them, Beelzebub dragged themselves back to their desk. Maybe that’s why he suggested them in the first place.

It was almost enough stress to consider taking up smoking themselves, but that would mean brushing wings with the… angels… and Beelzebub would sooner take up felting.

* * *

It was the perpetual Summer of ’78 when Beelzebub recanted on their promise and started felting as a hobby. They’d harassed the motivational speaker from a few years back, soul trapped in hell purely by virtue of being a motivational speaker and, apparently crafts relieve stress in the same way that nicotine does.

“Bullshit!” They slammed the lumpy fly hat on the desk, just as Crowley slipped through the door.

“Did you want the complete report of my M25 project?” He couldn’t quite take his eyes off the strange hat. Beelzebub grunted and the demon dumped it in their “Incinerate” tray.

“Hey, I was going for a smoke. Did you want to come?” He offered, shoving his hands in to his pockets somewhat awkwardly. He knew the Lord didn’t smoke but, well, they looked positively on the edge. Senseless murder was a good source of stress relief within the circles, and thoroughly encouraged by upper management, but Crowley believed that the powers of booze and cigarettes could mitigate any mass homicides.

His boss grunted again.

“Wear the hat!” Crowley said boldly, picking it up and jamming it on Beelzebub’s head. “It suits you.”

They must have taken it to heart, because it hadn’t come off since.

So Beelzebub groused and dragged their feet to the elevator behind the redhead.

“Here,” Crowley threw half a pack of Camels to them. “Don’t want to look like you’re a novice.”

As he slipped on his sunglasses, the other demon inspected the packet with curiosity.

“You got a light?” They asked cautiously, mindful of how this whole mess started.

Crowley scoffed.

“Nah, these days we conjure hellfire for the shits and giggles. We get the giggles. It gives all the white wingers the shits.”

Beelzebub nodded.

They were all for ruffling a few feathers.

* * *

The courtyard was a glum and grimy alcove that sat between the two offices. The sky was a perpetual grey, which the angels mistakenly attributed to the constant throng of demons loitering around, and the demons thought was God threatening to put their cigarettes out with a healthy burst of rain. It was just London weather, and neither side could claim responsibility for that one.

The angels had drawn a fussy line down the middle of the pavement when their neighbours had begun using the space too. The ethereal side was polished and prim. A small fountain trickled in the corner. A few plants dotted the seating area. It was civilised as much as an area choked with smoke could be. The demon’s side looked like the back of the worst kind of alley in central London. Probably because it was where the designer had gotten their inspiration. A broken trolley was upended for seating, small piles of trash clustered around, the strong smell of rotten eggs seeping the area. The latter was the trademark smell of Hell and probably wasn’t improved by the worker’s hygiene standards. There was also a scruffy looking raccoon they fondly called “Bastard.”

“I bought some apple for the Bastard.” Crowley pulled a plastic bag out of his impossibly tight pocket.

“I’m sorry, what?” It was a mark of how thrown his boss was that they’d accidentally been polite.

“You’ll see.” He grinned, leaning on the door to the courtyard.

There was a cruel jeer as the two of them entered the space, but it wasn’t coming from the demons. Perched upon cushions with cigars and brandy were the veritable gentleman’s club of Heaven. Gabriel, Sandalphon and two other equally stuck up angels had all noticed the arrival of the Prince.

They buzzed angrily and made to storm over to the group.

“Nah, we have an agreement with them.” Crowley grabbed the back of their blazer. “Keep to our side.”

His boss actually arranged their face in something eerily close to a pout.

“Come on, we’ll smite them sometime when they’re not sloshed. I’ll introduce you to Bastard.” Crowley lit his cigarette with the tip of a finger and blew a cloud of smoke in Beelzebub’s direction, who choked.

“That’s terrible.” They wheezed. “Give me one.”

It was the easiest temptation Crowley had ever accomplished, and on his boss of all occult beings! Through the plume of oppressive smoke, the Lord couldn’t smell a temptation when it presented itself and quickly fell in to a routine of taking regular breaks to lounge in the courtyard, feed the Bastard and glower at the angels across the way.

Until one day they entered the courtyard and it was empty.

“Good riddance.” Beelzebub grouched and settled on the trolley, adjusting their hat. It was quite tempting to creep over to the angel’s side and trash the place a little bit. But the Prince was the first to encourage discouraging irritating the enemy (it helps if you sound it out real slow) and they were quite certain logic dictated they didn’t cause trouble. Or maybe they should?

They took a drag whilst pondering the conundrum but were interrupted by the squeak of a stained-glass door. Gabriel slipped in to a seat on the angel’s side, eyes flicking over warily to the Prince.

“Don’t worry wank-wings, I’m waiting for the war to finish you off.” They leered.

Gabriel cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It’s not that, I was just wondering if…” he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and the Prince did a double take. They’d only seen the angels messing about with stuffy, expensive cigars like the pompous pricks they were. This was a box of corner store cigarettes. Not Beelzebub’s favourite but definitely one of Hell’s most popular brands. “Just, don’t say anything.” He hissed, lighting up the traitor smoke.

Beelzebub shrugged.

“Surely I have better rumours to spread.”

They sat in awkward silence before a scrabbling noise distracted the Prince.

“Ah, Bastard!” The raccoon had climbed up in to the demon’s lap and was now sniffing at their pockets. “Sorry, I didn’t bring anything.”

The apology was genuine and, maybe, this is what piqued the angel’s interest.

“I have some crackers.”  He stood up, fishing around in the grey suit until he produced one of those small packets you get on short-haul flights [2].

Beelzebub frowned and scooped up the trash cat, before edging towards the angel’s outstretched hand.

“D’you want me to throw it?” He joked, but the man had also taken half a step back as the demon approached. Revelling in how uncomfortable the angel seemed to be, Beelzebub took the opportunity to lunge forward, hand brushing against Gabriel’s as they snatched the package. It didn’t quite have the intended effect though. The dark haired man didn’t automatically recoil and their touch was almost electric, leaving them both eyeing each other warily.

The angel cleared his throat.

“I’ve got a— uh— a meeting.” He smoothed the front of his suit and ground his cigarette butt in to the ground with an obscenely overpriced loafer.

Beelzebub was left standing alone in the courtyard, clutching Bastard (who’d made quick work of opening the crackers), and staring in disbelief at the smouldering butt on the ground.

The angel had littered.

1 Although calling it “summer” was being a bit facetious, it was always the worst kind of summer day in Hell. [return to text]

2 Anything with unnecessary plastic was a mistaken invention of Heaven, whose priorities were more orientated towards convenience than believing outlandish myths like Climate Change. Short-haul flights were another one of Heaven’s “great ideas”, but any delay that rendered it quicker to walk to your destination was decidedly the handiwork of Hell’s. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

There was a tentative knock at the bookshop door. Crowley, who had been carelessly waltzing around the front room with a tall glass of red cordial (for the express purpose of making the floor uncomfortably sticky for customers) paused his demonic duties to peer around the blind.

“Angel! There’s a street urchin for you!”

Of course It was twenty-bloody-seventeen and Aziraphale still had occasional visitors who dressed for a career as a chimney sweep, soot and all.

It had always made Crowley very curious.

“Begone!” The angel waved a hand as he went to open up the door, cringing as his right foot found a particularly sticky floorboard. “Really?”

“Keeps the customers out.” Crowley shrugged and scuttled away to the back room.

He peered around the corner as Aziraphale talked with his visitor. There was a subtle exchange of money (as subtle as the angel had ever managed to be) and then the door was closing.

“What’cha got?”

The man jumped as Crowley popped his head out, grinning mischievously.

“Nothing that concerns you.” The blond said primly, tucking something in to the pocket of his waistcoat. Crowley’s eyes narrowed. Aziraphale was renowned in both heaven and hell for his nativeness, though it was only the demon that could hazard a guess at the true extent of it.

“Your ethereal-ness?” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Am I mistaken, or did you just purchase some of the Devil’s Lettuce?”

Aziraphale spluttered, cheeks ruddy.

“I don’t think, when God made the world, that She intended a plant—“

Crowley cut him off, hands up in surrender and mentally high-fiving himself for such exceptional detective skills.

“Hey, hey, I’m not one to judge. You’ve got the good stuff.”

“If you must know, I find it calming.” He sniffed. “And I get my supply from one of the city’s higher end dealers.”

“Whose delivery boys dress like this is Victorian England and they’re off to steal some bread?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Seems inconspicuous enough for me.”

“Of course it would, for you.”

Crowley slid him hands in to his pockets and wandered nonchalantly in the the front room.

“So, do you smoke it?” He made a gesture like he was taking a drag.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Except Heaven is very strict about these things, especially…”

_“The devil’s lettuce”_ Crowley mouthed.

“So I do tend to keep it private.” He finished.

“I know of a lawless place between Heaven and Hell where you can relax for a quick joint.”

“You mean earth?”

“Pfft, no angel! As much as they try to circumvent them, humanity do try to have laws. No, I’m talking about The Courtyard.”

“THE Courtyard?” Aziraphale frowned blankly, not quite seeing the significance. Crowley sighed.

“Yes, the smokers’ courtyard in the office.”

“Oh no, I’m not going anywhere near Hell for a quick smoke.”

Of course, straight-laced Aziraphale who liked to keep his vices under wraps would never have visited the den of inequity that was the courtyard.

“I’ll show you!” Crowley brightened. “I’ll introduce you to Bastard III.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Your lot are getting even less creative with the names, aren’t they.”

“He’s not a demon, he’s a raccoon.” Crowley bit back, somewhat ruffled by the angel’s flippant use of “your lot.”

Wait until he sees what’s happening in The Courtyard.

* * *

If we were dealing with humans and their pathetically short lives, they most certainly would have given The Courtyard a makeover or two in the four decades that had passed since both sides began to occupy it. Forty years was like an ad-break in existence of celestial beings, damned or otherwise, and so  no one had even bothered to turn the trolly upright.[3] The only indication of change was the raccoon that lounged in one of the trash piles, scraggly and more devious than his namesake’. It seemed that natural selection had favoured courtyard’s mascot such that  each successive generation was even more bastard-looking.[4]

Aziraphale gasped in amazement, and this gasp wasn’t directed at the seemingly out of date design concept. A lot had actually changed in this ad-break of an immortal existence and it was, perhaps, best summed up by the scene that was unfolding in front of the duo:

Hastur and Michael were sharing a cigarette by the run down fountain. Micheal’s kitten heels were discarded some feet away. Hastur had loosened his tie in halfhearted attempt to look casual. It wasn’t just them. The Courtyard was flooded with groups of angels and demons, milling around each other like kids in the school yard, shrouded by a blanket of smoke.

“That’s the old segregation line.” Crowley kicked at some faded paint on the ground. “After a few years sharing the space Beelzebub decided that we were civil enough to not have to worry about sides in this place.” He snorted.

“Can’t speak for _your lot_.” He eyed Sandalphon who was standing near a group of disposable demons, nose slightly wrinkled in distaste.

“Oh, Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “This is quite splendid. What a good idea. D’you think?” He tapped his breast pocket.

Crowley smirked.

“Yeah, they won’t give a flying eff. As long as you’ve got some for me.”

He didn’t bother to tell Aziraphale who _they_ were or what _they_ were doing. The angel could find that out on his own.

Crowley lit the blunts with a finger and Aziraphale frowned.

“Really, dear? Is that safe?”

“’S not hellfire, angel. That was banned back in ’85.”

The blond sighed and took one back, taking a long drag.

“You said you had a bastard I could meet?”

Crowley sniggered and pointed over at the trash heap where the raccoon was sprawled. Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, walked over and knelt down to introduce himself properly.

“Ow! Crowley, he bit me!” He yelled indignantly. It was much like the angel to expect that a being named Bastard would be the perfect gentleman.

“He’s not rabid.” Crowley strolled over. “At the moment. ’S lots of fun when he is.” And he seemed to mean it, chuckling to himself.

“This is the good stuff.” He commented, somewhat impressed.

“Of course it is, dear.” Aziraphale bristled, as if they were at the Ritz sampling their finest red. “Oh my,” the angel’s eyes found something in the distance that made him fumble with his joint before he lost all composure and surrendered the blasted thing to the pavement.

Crowley followed his gaze and suppressed his finest cackle.

“There’s a reason why our offices started screaming for world peace real quick.”

Sitting dishevelled in a far corner was an angel — in a miraculously still clean grey suit — intertwined with a certain Prince of Hell.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale looked torn, like he wanted to stare at the scene in front of him forever or look away and never have to see it again.

“Sides aren’t much of a thing around here.” He smirked, waggling his eyebrows at the blond, who completely missed the flirtatious gesture in lieu of ogling his boss getting snogged by his demonic counterpart.

“I don’t—“ Aziraphale’s hands flexed nervously, before he looked down and realised he was smokeless.

“Here,” Crowley offered and passed his remaining stub over, glaring over the man’s shoulder at Bastard III who was now reclining with Aziraphale’s joint.

“I think we should get out of here.” The angel sounded extremely — and in Crowley’s opinion unnecessarily — alarmed.

“S’all good, we’re friends here.” He waved lazily.

The blond levelled him with a stare and Crowley found himself conceding.

“Fine, but I don’t see what’s got your knickers in a twist.”

They left unnoticed in the ruckus of The Courtyard.

Aziraphale spent the next few days holed up in his back room.

_“Thinking”_ he’d called it, with a slightly distressed look on his face.

Crowley gave him the space he seemed to need.

He was a demon of temptation, he knew the effects the Courtyard had on newcomers.

And, in this case, he was quite excited to see how it all panned out.

3 It gave a certain menacing sort of je ne sais quoi to the demons’ side, in their professional opinion. When in reality, it screamed “anarchy” as much as a teenager buying pre-ripped jeans.[return to text]

4 The truth was, there was no Mrs. Bastard. Bastard the III was merely a replica of Bastard II who was a replica of the original. Story goes (for those who are privy) that every time the raccoon went missing indefinitely, some demon was tasked with conjuring up a suitable replacement. Hence why the Bastards were slowly becoming more bastard-like, it was down to what the demon’s expected hell’s mascot to be. [return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale had seen too many things in his time on earth.

Naturally, a lot of them he did not like.

That was why he found books so inviting.

If you didn’t like how things were turning out, you could simply stop reading, effectively erasing the discomfort of the truth the author was trying to force down your throat. Whilst he was generally fond of “plot twists” in his novels, keeping the reader on their toes and the like, he was decidedly not a fan of what he called “real life plot twists” and the average person, without some millennia’s worth of stubbornness behind them, would refer to as “change.” He was quickly discovering that this particular plot twist was decidedly unwelcome in his reality, and reeked of a lifetime movie pitch. The fundamental concept of sides, of good and evil, had been ungracefully demolished by a claustrophobic courtyard and a few well placed “No Smoking” signs. He couldn’t name every feeling that surfaced, settling with the ever uncomfortable yet always familiar doubt that came with questioning Her intentions. Was She even there anymore? Or, like a naive parent, had skipped town for a conference, leaving their large and empty house in the charge of their usually very responsible teenager. He pondered and ruminated and ever so slowly meandered through the stages of grief,  of which Crowley noted with interest:[5]

**Denial:** For the first few days, Aziraphale mechanically set about on his daily routine, but lacking his usual flourishes and enthusiasm. It was only when he turned down a trip to the gallery that Crowley grew frustrated enough to broach the subject of what must surely be bothering him.

“Look, angel, if this is about The Courtyard—“

Like a petulant child, the angel clamped hands over his ears and sung out:

_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

just until Crowley had the good sense to drop the conversation and retreat to a corner of the shop to sulk.

**A****nger:** Aggressive Dusting.

Perhaps the first time the demon had seen his friend attend to the general cleanliness of the shop.

_“Very disturbing”_ Crowley had scrawled in the margin.

**Bargaining:** “We can fix this.” He leaned over his croissant conspicuously. The demon grunted, only focussed on making sure his friend didn’t stick his elbow in the butter dish.“First… we get in contact with Metatron. Tell him to tell Her what’s going on there.”

“I’m sure She’s got some idea, angel, she’s omnipotent.”

“Then why hasn’t she intervened.” He slammed an angry fist in to the butter dish. Crowley sighed and handed him a napkin.

**Depression:** “But what about the Great Plan?” He sobbed over his glass of whiskey. “We’ve wasted so many years hating each other and now everything’s just peachy because of the sharing of few cigarettes?” (“More than a few,” Crowley offered quite cheerily. “I think there’s been a strong trade in spit too, if our bosses are any indication.” Aziraphale’s bottom lip wobbled and he dissolved in to a fresh round of tears.)

And finally, **_radical_ acceptance** that seemed to manifest out of nowhere an a sunny Thursday morning, exactly two weeks since Crowley had introduced his friend to whole… fraternising with the enemy  situation:[6]

“Oh, fuck it.” The blond threw down his paper and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Crowley startled from his perch at the window, where he had been coaxing the pavement outside (very politely, I must add) to develop the kind of minute potholes that caused coffee to spill on Armani suits.

“I’m sorry, what?” the demon barked out incredulously. Aziraphale had vast lexicon that had never once included a swear word.

In fact, the flippant profanity pierced Crowley’s heart, where something warm festered in the wound.

Aziraphale sighed.

"I’m trying really hard to understand what in heaven’s name is going on between our sides. I’d say in Hell’s name but it’s got hell written all over it. The Courtyard slaps of temptation and I cannot believe my superiors allowed this arrangement to persist for so long.”

Crowley bit back a comment about how Gabriel was probably getting a good deal from this one.

“So, what I’m saying is… who cares?” He continued. “Obviously She doesn’t and as much as I want to do what She wants it’s quite hard to believe She’d allow this to happen right under her nose for so long if She disapproved.”

“That’s the spirit.” Crowley nodded heartily. “Don’t suppose I can tempt you to a quick smoko?”

* * *

The hesitation in Aziraphale’s step as they entered the office building, didn’t quite scream “_oh, fuck it._”

In fact, the way his hands fidgeted, seemed to scream “_oh shit, oh shit_” which, whilst both having similar rankings on the explicative scale, reflected fundamentally different sentiments.

“Calm down,” Crowley leaned in. _Oh, brilliant, real ground-breaking stuff there Mr Freud, tell the anxious person to “calm down.”_ His brain hissed, suddenly making the demon aware that he seemed to have some kind of stake in this. He wanted the angel to be okay with their respective offices… interacting.

Let it be a sign. A sign of… progress.

Perhaps a sign that there’s actually something more between the friends that they’d spent millennia artfully dancing around.

Besides, everyone’s kissing their mortal enemy, get with the times.

* * *

One sauntered, the other cowered as the pair entered the crowded courtyard. It seemed that maybe Hell had gone a bit soft on what constituted a smoke break. Ie. what was specifically — in the title no less — a break for a cigarette.

Because today, they’d set up a folding table and were playing beer pong.

The angels weren’t about to back away from a challenge.

“No cheating,” hissed Uriel as she finished setting up.

“Excuse you, that’s cultural erasure.” Dagon shot back and the game quickly devolved in to a battle of minor miracles and copious amounts of booze.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale blustered and, surely by now they’d seen it all?

But even Crowley had to admit to being a little shocked when he laid eyes on Hastur and Ligur cuddling on one of the benches.

So that’s why Ligur had bribed him away from the Helsinki job the other week. 

[7]

It was quite sweet; in a gross and irritating way. 

At least it seemed to compliment their job descriptions.

“Soooo…” Aziraphale swung around, eyes wide and the demon’s stomach did a traitorous swoop. He felt like the girl standing on the outskirts of the gym at a high school dance. Suddenly he had the attention of the most dazzling person in the room, and they were approaching, and they were asking for a dance…

“I’m sorry, what?” Crowley shook his head.

“I said did you bring the cigarettes?” Aziraphale asked curiously. “You know, the ones you’ve been waving around the last few days. Dare I say tempting me with.”

Crowley blushed.

“I— err— ngk.” Of course his mind had been elsewhere and he’d left them back at the bookshop. Before he could subtly manifest another box, the angel had taken a step closer.

“A bit distracted are we?” His tone was teasing. And well, yes, even if he didn’t have Aziraphale standing in front of him lighting up the space like the fucking sun, the courtyard was the equivalent of a college frat party. Even the Dali Llama couldn’t focus in this place.

Crowley pushed his glasses to the top of his head, eyes searching the blond’s face. He’d moved in another few inches, warm breath ghosting against the demon’s cold skin. They were so close that he could count the eyelashes framing those azure eyes. Aziraphale seemed to wet his lips tentatively. Breath caught in his throat. Crowley leaned forward. The angel shied away.

Crowley’s heart clenched, had he misread the signs?

Aziraphale took a step backwards, eyes flitting over their surrounds. The angel couldn’t even look at him. A wretched feeling threatened to engulf him, but it was halted when the blond leant in and whispered softly in his ear.

“Dear, I’d very much like to kiss you but, well, I have standards—“

Here it was. It was all very well for Archangels to go around fraternising, but prim-and-proper love thy Mother Aziraphale would not be caught discorporated kissing a slimy demon. Even one he’d kept close for so long.

“This Courtyard is very grotty. It’s not very romantic. Could we just?” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

They were standing once again in the front room of the bookshop.

“Is this okay?” Manicured fingers tugged the demon closer.

Crowley let out a strangled noise of agreement before pressing his lips to the angel’s soft, delicate ones.

After a few seconds, or minutes, or a lifetime or so, they broke apart.

“This is nice.” Aziraphale murmured, face flush against the other's cheek.

“Better than the good stuff?” The demon joked breathlessly.

Hands pulled him in for a second, searing kiss.

“Oh, darling this _is_ the good stuff.”

Aziraphale’s words were music to his ears.

5 Mostly because not much was interesting those days when your best friend with tied up in an existential crisis of indeterminate length. Also, and he would not admit it, he was a smidgen worried and briefly considered consulting with the wanna-be-shrink motivational speaker that still hung around their office these days like a bad smell (Note: they had that too).[return to text]

6Let's just pretend this hasn't been a theme until now.

[return to text]

7It wasn't a bribe as much as a "Hey Crowley, do you want to just chill with your friend the angel this weekend? 'cause I can go to Helsinki with Hastur if you want." and Crowley had not only fallen for it hook, line and sinker but he was so fixated on spending more time with Aziraphale that he'd never thought to question the other demon's motives.

[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at [@sorrens](https://sorrens.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please feel free to browse my other Good Omens fics. I've written a few AUs, some angst, some crack, some questionable use of internet humour, basically ineffable husbands in many flavours.


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